Ephemera
by looks the same
Summary: AU. Maura is seventeen. She is considered an ending. It doesn't matter what she wants from this world or what she is willing to give. Even if Jane is the love of her life she will only ever be Jane's ephemera. WARNING: CANCER STORY. Maura POV.
1. Chapter 1

Ephemera: _plural n. things that exist or are used or enjoyed for only a short time_

* * *

_MAURA POV_

You frown at your reflection. Squint one eye close, then the other, sigh, shrug your shoulders. The movement causes a slight twinge of pain to shoot down your spine, but it's nothing. Fleeting, then gone. The image that stares back at you however, is not as kind.

You gather the tail ends of the head scarf that are fastened tightly around your skull, pull the triangular pieces of navy silk so that they land together over your left shoulder.

"Lipstick?" you ask, bite your chapped lips to get an indication if some color might help the whole situation.

"Yes, absolutely."

The nurse sitting across from you hands the tube over, watches as you apply it to your lips.

"Sweetie," she starts, pauses when you reach out to move her hand so that the other woman holds the mirror for you at the appropriate angle. "You sure you don't want me to help you down there?"

You cap the lipstick, press your lips together. You bite back a reproach over the term of endearment. It's silly of her, this nurse, to have gotten attached. A sigh makes its way out of your mouth as you pick your ring off the side table, automatically sliding it onto your middle finger. The metal skims over your skin, does not hitch on a knuckle. You sigh again, move the ring to your thumb where it still won't fit, give up and set it back on the table.

"No, thank you," you reply softly.

The nurse looks crestfallen but you learned a long time ago that you cannot take care of other people. You, Maura Isles, have had to train yourself not to feel other people, their emotion, their sorrow, their concern. She's twenty-nine, this nurse. Young, really young. You asked her for the detail in a moment of weakness. A moment of fever when the ice chips being held to your lips was the best gift anyone had ever given you. There had been vomit staining the front of your hospital gown and this nurse had sat next to you and held that pan while you threw up more than a stomach could possibly contain for over an hour.

Tammy, that's her name, had rubbed your lower back and whispered soothing attempts into your ear as pain ricocheted off every last vertebrae of your spine. She was twenty-nine and healthy therefore she was naive. She was still hopeful. She still thought that someone like you had to have a chance.

You smile at the woman sitting across from you. Glance once more in the mirror and give your sunken face, much too sharp cheekbones, and yellowish hued reflection a tight smile. Your lips at least look pretty.

"I can manage Tammy."

It's not that difficult of a concept to understand.

_Terminal: causing, ending in, or approaching death; fatal._

It's right there in the definition of the word. There is no room for uncertainties or who knows, maybes or maybe nots. Prayers, hopes, and miracles do not belong. The science does not lie.

Seventeen, you hear them say. The nurses on this floor, whispering it to each other when they think you're too sick to hear anything. The sadness in their voices, however, always carries.

You pull a loose string from the hem of your t-shirt. Smooth your skirt, make sure it isn't bunched up in any way. You aren't quitting. You're fighting this thing. Have been fighting this thing and you're going to squeeze out every moment from this that you can. Extend your time, that's the goal. But there's an expiration date on your life and it's coming a lot sooner than for most. You don't understand why it's so hard for others to understand that.

You are an ending.

You slip your fingerless leather gloves on and click the lock off your chair. Your hands find their way as you start to navigate yourself towards the door. You're getting better in this chair.

You do however pause to look over your shoulder at Tammy. "Thanks for helping me get ready."

Tammy only nods, tries to hide the emotion that can not be hidden. Twenty-nine, you think again. Wonder what that would even feel like.

* * *

You look forward to these things. They're _lame _as so many of the other teenage patients say, but you still enjoy them. The hospital makes any tiny holiday into a big event, a celebration of sorts, a social as you like to call them. Patients who have been discharged, some even for a few years, still come back for these gatherings. A reunion, of sorts. Except it's less about who is doing what now and more about who's still alive.

Today is Flag Day, the fourteenth of June, and as you make your way into the conference room you're met with bright flags, patriotic music, and the nation's colors dripping in the form of streamers. You grin. It's festive.

You take a moment to observe who else is there. Quickly you find a familiar face that is smiling back at you. Barry Frost, also seventeen, is all white teeth.

"Hey Doc!" he says, leaning down to embrace you but then pulls back suddenly. "Okay?" he asks.

"Get down here," you say, pull at his shirt so that he puts more weight into the hug than he intends. "I won't break."

He laughs, lingers there for a moment then gives a little squeeze. "Good to see you again friend."

He pulls back, turns his head briefly and you give him a second so he can pretend you don't know he needs the moment to make sure no tears fall. You missed the last two of these events and not because you got to go home and live a semi-normal reenactment of life.

"You have to stop calling me that Barry," you say, give him something else besides your expiration date to think about.

He laughs, wheezes slightly, and moves a chair up so he can sit next to you.

"Well," he starts, "like I say, you're smarter than most these real doctors in here anyways."

You grin, pleased with the compliment. "Well, still. It's a title that is earned and I have yet to do so."

He smiles at you and you smirk back. You both know you aren't going to be given the opportunity. And it's not sad. It's not whiney or dramatic. It's just honest.

"Whatever you say, Doc. Whatever you say."

* * *

You met Barry Frost two years ago. You remember it clearly. The evening started at home, sitting at the dining room table with your parents attempting to choke down this beautiful lemon birthday cake your mother had ordered from the finest bakery in all of Boston. You were a month out of your first round of chemotherapy and just a few hours into your fifteenth year when the taste of the lemon zest mixed with the raspberry sorbet created an all too unpleasant combination. The pain struck you so suddenly that your fork hitting the marble floor was the first indication that something was happening. The second was the sound that came ripping out of your throat, the third was you passing out from the pain.

It was later that night and you were in the Emergency Room with a whole slew of drips stabbed into your arm. The events of the busy room floated by you in a warm haze that not only made you dizzy but that seemed to act as a sedative, independent from the one being pumped into your blood. Still though you noticed Barry Frost and his mother immediately upon their arrival. Focusing on them, observing their behavior, somehow made it easier to ignore the pain that was still lingering and its most likely indications.

It also helped you ignore the fact that while your parents were efficient in making sure you were settled in and taken care of, they had also retreated back home as soon as the doctors had finished their tests and had decided to hold you for a few days. But that was okay. It was just how they were. It didn't mean that they loved you less. Their lack of physical commitment didn't really feel bad, it was just the way it was.

It was clear to you however that this was a first time trip for the boy across the room. There was panic on his face and much more of it on his mothers. At one point in the evening while you were waiting for someone to come collect you, admit you and escort you to the pediatric oncology floor, another woman had joined the two novices. This new woman dropped off a bag of clothing, a few water bottles, and you watched as the sick boy raised his hands to sign to the woman a thank you.

You immediately sat up, wincing as you wiggled into a position that didn't feel like a knife was lodged into your spine. The three of them signed for a few minutes more and your eyes picked up the language. The summer prior you learned American Sign Language when your parents first pulled you out of school. Had spent hours curled into those hospital chairs practicing the hand movements while the poison that they thought might actually save you was dripped into your system. Keeping your brain busy was the only salvation you knew.

The woman had left and the boy and his mother had gone back to talking except you couldn't hear them from across the busy E.R. Finally the boy's mother had brushed a hand over his forehead, whispered something to him and took leave as a nurse entered. You waited until he happened to glance your way. Smiling at him you gave a shy wave and then proceeded to ask if he was okay. The boy had raised an eyebrow as you sent the signs. He flashed those white teeth of his before responding that he was okay. He then asked how you were.

_Me?_ You signed. _Lemon cake and chemotherapy don't go well together. Other than that, okay_.

And so it began. Your first friendship.

* * *

You don't really agree with this whole talking about people behind their backs thing. Gossiping. But from your observations, this is something friends do and neither of you are being hurtful so you allow yourself to indulge in something so very _teenager._

"The latest iPhone, can you believe it?" Frost leans in closer to you, propping his elbow on the armrest of your wheelchair.

"_I_ have the latest iPhone Barry." You scowl at him.

"Yeah, but you're loaded _and_," he emphasizes, "seventeen."

You look back at Shirley West. She's showing off her new device to a few other patients, grinning as she flicks her thumb over its screen. She's eleven.

"She's not even dying," Barry concludes.

This is true.

"What I wouldn't give for appendix cancer," you quip.

After a beat you look back at Frost who is wide eyed at you. "Nice Doc." He laughs.

You do too. Cancer has made you more sarcastic than you ever imagined. But it's in good fun and besides Shirley West is going home today, indefinitely.

_Lucky bitch_

Frost signs it to you and you shake your head, grinning. The two of you decide to choke down some red, white, and blue cookies.

* * *

She's been staring at you for quite sometime. You chance a few glances over your shoulder and her quickness to divert your eyes is too extreme for the staring to be in your imagination. You appraise her in small bursts, then go back to your conversation with Barry. She's tall. Lanky. Olive skin. Barry is talking about some action figure that he just _has to get his hands on. _

From your quick glances it is apparent that she is not a patient. She's skinny but in an athletic way. Sharp cheekbones but in a genetic way. And the masses of wild dark hair that curl every-which direction are just a little bit vulgar for this room. She sits with a boy who looks to be a few years younger than she. Frost notices you glancing back.

"Who are the new kids?" he asks.

You shrug.

It's probably the chair. She's staring at the chair. It's somewhat of a stare magnet. But every time you check, in that moment before she jerks her eyes away, well it's the stare of interest. You've been looked at that way before. Not lately though. You shake your head. Yellow hued skin, skinny legs and no hair is probably not her _type_. You will not let yourself indulge in silly thoughts.

Barry is asking when you might get to go home.

"Probably tomorrow," you answer. "You could come by?"

"Yeah, yeah! Well, I'll have to ask my mom but she loves you. Keeps asking me when I'm going to ask out that pretty girl from the hospital."

The two of you laugh. You and Barry practically live at each other's homes. When you're not in the hospital, joining him and his mom for dinner is a common occurrence. They're both good for you and you're good for him. You're especially good for his study habits.

"And what do you say?" You grin at him.

"I tell her I've got one, rather large if I say so myself, body part that just doesn't do it for you."

"Barry!" You smack his shoulder. "You do not!"

He laughs, closing his eyes. "Okay, I don't say it exactly like that."

You hold your reddening face. It feels good to laugh again. Tomorrow it will feel even better when you're home, in your own bed, surrounded by your books, waiting for Barry to come over so you can crush him at Scrabble.

"So should we go check her out?"

You jerk into awareness. "What? Who?"

Barry widens his eyes at you. "Don't pretend with me Maura. I can see the way the two of you keep glancing at each other. Come on."

And he's already standing, heading in that direction. You glance over at the two strangers, the girl now leaning against the wall with her hips jetting out, talking with the boy.

You let out a breath of air. Adjust the ends of your head scarf. There is zero point is arguing with Barry about anything. He's the best friend you've got and besides the strangers are blocking the punch table. Punch is your favorite part about these gatherings.

Barry's joking voice can already be heard as he approaches them. "Blocking the punch table, eh? Bold move."

Clearly he agrees with you.

* * *

A/N: Details of Maura's disease are coming. Frost too. This story will be about the romantic relationship between Jane and Maura. I can already feel it happening and am sure it will continue...Maura's characterization will be a little more...hm, less calculated, more risky, more sarcastic than her cannon self. She has to be. She's dying and that changes a person. I'm going for a mix.

I know I have an unfinished story out there, Come Sing Me a Song. And to be honest, it will probably remain as such. I know better than to start a cannon-ish story only to have the new season blow the whole idea into AU. Apologies. At least no risk with that on this one as it is AU all the way.

I'm posting this with an M rating from the beginning so I don't have to bother changing it in the next few chapters. Let me know what you think about this start!


	2. Chapter 2

Ephemera: _plural n. things that exist or are used or enjoyed for only a short time_

* * *

_MAURA POV_

"Good morning sunshine." Barry Frost approaches you with a swagger. He's wearing a pair of fitted jeans with a navy short-sleeved cotton shirt.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, a smile breaking over your features. He bends down as you offer your cheek.

"Oh, was just in the neighborhood," he responds. Barry winks at you and crosses behind, taking control of your mobility. "Where to miss?" he asks.

"Paris," you say. "Immediately."

He pretends to contemplate your request as he maneuvers you onto the elevator. "I do believe that is on the eleventh floor." He reaches over you and pushes the appropriate button.

You snort, look up at him. "Really though, you didn't have to come. It's early."

"And miss your brilliant execution of that Paris line? I don't think so." The elevator rises, stops to let a few others on and then continues. "You know what they say though," he starts. "No better way to start the day then with a little chemo."

You break into laughter, more so when he tugs on the edge of your flowered scarf and tells you that you look like you could use some. The others in the elevator shift slightly away from the two of you which only causes you to giggle more

"Oh never fear," Barry continues, gesturing to the other patrons. His voice is light, intended for your enjoyment alone but loud enough that every single individual inside this steel box can hear him. "Teenage cancer, while tragic, is not contagious."

And with that your elevator arrives on the pediatric oncology floor. He pushes you out, runs a few steps that send you shrieking in surprise and him wheezing in discomfort. And you know without a doubt that Barry has got both feet on the back of your wheels as the two of you soar down the hallway, delight ringing out of your mouth.

* * *

"So how many more minutes do I have to sit here and pretend to care about the history of African Americans employed by the Boston police force before you start spilling about that Jane girl?"

Your mouth drops open in shock. Barry squints one eye open from his lazy position in the chair opposite you, re-crosses his ankles, props them onto your own arm rest.

"Excuse me?" You feign confusion, shift your eyes away from the scrutiny of your best friend. You eye everything but him. The drips that hang off to your left, the I.V. connecting them to you, the nurses's station, anything.

You start to fidget. Tugging at your long sleeve thermal, as if the sleeves are too tight on your wrists, picking non-existent lint from your leggings, pulling your legs into your chest so you can reach down and straighten the silver band along your toe.

Barry lets out a bark of laughter. "Oh come off it Maura. She's hot and was eyeing you hard. Don't tell me that it didn't ignite a little something inside that giant brain of yours."

You digest his statement, skip over the lexicon that is not your own, disregard the assumption that high IQ has anything to do with actual brain mass.

You decide to go with, "Yes, she was pretty."

Barry just blinks at you. He then shrugs his shoulders and leans back in his chair, closes his eyes. "Well if you aren't interested then I think I will definitely ask her out. I bet she looks hot in a dress, those long legs and all. She's a little on the skinny side but toned, don't you think? I bet she's got a stamina that is ..."

"Okay!" you practically shriek, incredibly grossed out at the idea of Barry and this Jane doing anything more then refilling an empty cup of punch... for you. "Fine! She's wonderful. She's... infectiously wonderful. Witty, smart, sure of herself, sarcastic but in a kind way, sexy as hell and I cannot rid my thoughts of one Jane Rizzoli- age unknown, attendant of Monument High School located in South Boston, captain of the varsity ice hockey team, member of the varsity softball team, and current record holder for fastest 400 meter sprint in all of Massachusetts."

There is a beat and there is a pause.

"Well, I was present during the entire conversation we had with her on Flag Day," Barry starts. "So unless you had an additional conversation with her, I'm guessing you Maura Isles are so smitten with Jane Rizzoli that you possibly Googled her?"

"No!" You jerk a little, wince as your I.V. reminds you that you can't just flail your arms in annoyance right now. "You know I don't use Google!" You shoot him a death stare. "I simply looked up the athletic department at her school."

"Besides," you rush on. "It's not hurting anyone. I'm allowed to have a crush Barry! You are constantly telling me about some new _little hot thing_ you met at school. I'm never going back to school! I'm dying but I'm not dead yet and I am allowed to find someone attractive!"

Somehow your volume has turned up. Somehow you're angry. Somehow you're irrational, yelling at Barry like this. But you don't know what to do with it. So you pull your knees to your chest, circling your lower body with your arms, look out the window.

By your calculations you will be vomiting on a semi-regular occurrence for the next month or so in about...oh, six hours. Your face will lose all hopes of filling out and regaining color and you'll lose your energy and there won't be a point in getting back into physical therapy so that you can strengthen your leg muscles and possibly get out of this damn chair.

It's enough to make anyone mad about nothing. Still though it isn't like you. You've already done mad. This is not new. And you have no right to take whatever frustration this dark haired girl has sparked in you out on your friend.

Barry sits with you in silence for a moment longer. He rises out of his chair and leans over you, brushes a hand along your forehead. You avoid eye contact. When he speaks his voice is soft.

"You, Maura dear, are also allowed to let someone else find you attractive. And interesting and wonderful and worth knowing regardless of what you call your expiration date."

You sniff a little, blink up at him with emotion pooling just a little in the bottom of your eyes.

He says, "I'm going to go find you the most coveted of all popsicle flavors. Even if I have to sneak into the nurse's lounge to snag the last cherry on this floor. Okay?"

You nod, breathe out the air you are holding in your lungs. He moves and you grip your legs a little tighter.

* * *

You were diagnosed with Ewing's sarcoma, a primary bone cancer, at fourteen. Malignant tumors were found inside the bones along your trunk and pelvis. You did an extended round of chemotherapy with non-specific results. Meaning, the tumors were neither shrinking nor spreading. Well, until they did. Your cancer metastasized in the Fall of your fifteenth year, spreading to your spine. You underwent surgery on the primary tumors. Another round of chemotherapy. An attempt at radiation. Drug therapy. A second surgery on the primary growth. And then two months ago, spinal surgery.

The nature of your cancer is that it will continue to spread. You can slow the growth and you can keep letting them cut out parts of you but eventually it will metastasize to another location. Your legs. Your arms. Your lungs. Your breasts. Your brain. All possibilities.

Sort of a welcome to the beginning of adulthood. Here are your woman's hips and legs, a set of magnificent breasts, a brain capable of impacting the world. _Now die._

Before spinal surgery you were adamant about staying out of a wheelchair. However, after the increase in muscle weakness it just became easier to use one. You have a habit of passing out, collapsing onto floors of super markets, department stores, and libraries. The chair keeps you from over tiring your limbs and gives you a bit of your freedom back. Your parents are beginning to re-allow you to branch out independently or more often than not with Barry Frost, now that they have some guarantee you aren't going to collapse and shatter another bone, fracture another wrist, roll another ankle.

Your parents do their best. Everything you could possibly want, they provide. They have the means to give you, their only child, any material possession that could be wanted. The fact is that the one thing you actually want, adulthood, is out of their reach. And it has created this barrier in which they feel incompetent and somehow you feel too needy. As if you are wanting too much. And maybe, maybe you are.

You're adopted. Have known for as long as you can remember. Your parents are strong believers in information being power, knowledge a thing not to shelter a child from. Your mother could have had biological children, that wasn't it. They adopted because they could. Because there are a lot of children in need of homes. Because the process of getting pregnant, being pregnant, giving birth, in all honesty, probably felt like too much of a fuss for her. You asked them once if they had known, known you'd be sick, known that your health would prevent the family from traveling, from their daughter becoming something prestigious like a doctor, if they would have forgone the whole thing.

Of course not, they had said. You're our daughter, they replied. That felt good, them saying that. They also said how it was better that a family with means be the one to have something like this happen to. It was then that you added that word to your list.

An ending. An expiration. A Darwinian effect. And now, an expense.

You've read dozens of teenage cancer stories. Sometimes the adolescent dies, more often they don't. Almost always their families seem to made up of these incredibly strong close knit families. Your family is strong too. They are. They do their best even if their best is not quite good enough.

* * *

"Remind me again why we're doing this?" You shout it from your position in the living room, making your way slowly towards Barry who is almost always residing in your kitchen.

And yes, you enter to find him in the fridge. A very uncomfortable Richard is standing off to the side. The poor man runs your parent's household and is always off kilter when Barry strolls in and refuses service. He does however rush over to pull a bar stool out for you. You smile at him as he offers an arm to help hoist you up.

"We won't be needing any assistance Richard. A few friends are stopping by and Mother and Father won't be home tell evening."

He gives you a hesitant look and then raises an eyebrow.

"And is Mr. and Mrs. Isles aware of the company?" he asks.

You slap him playfully on the shoulder. "Of course! I would never disobey the rules!"

He chuckles at your affection then reminds you to call if you need anything. You oblige.

Barry watches him exit, a mini quiche jammed into his mouth.

You roll your eyes. "Can you at least wait to eat your snack until after you've pulled it out of the refrigerator?"

He mumbles something about the presence of your family's help making him want to rebel.

"To answer your earlier question," he then responds. "We're just playing the perfect hosts to our newest friend, Frankie Rizzoli, who needs comrades in arms while he navigates the tricky water that is leukemia. I mean come on! Bone, lung, and blood! We make a very bad ass team!"

You roll your eyes at that.

"And, he's only fifteen. So his sister has to drive him; it was only polite of me to extend the invitation to both of them."

"So," you say, "we're doing this purely for Frankie and his health?"

Barry nods

"He's in remission," you say.

"And so am I darling. But that doesn't make it any easier to make friends in the real world. We will still always be the kids who have or had cancer."

This, this is true.

Barry has got a whole spread of cheeses going on all over your counter. You motion for him to bring you the box of crackers.

"Time is ticking Maura Isles," he says. "I will not let you go to your grave without a proper kiss from a very attractive woman. More than a kiss, if I have anything to say about it."

"You did not just say that to me," you deadpan, trying to bite back the smirk on your lips.

He just winks and then of course the doorbell rings.

* * *

They're talking about baseball. The three of them throwing around opinions. You lost interest a while ago but you listen, store away the information on what to research later so that next time you can be more of a participant.

Jane is animated. Her hands are constantly punctuating the air, sweeping strands of hair off her face, slapping her thighs. She wears a casual pair of jeans, ripped along one knee and frayed from the wash. A plain navy tank top hugs her upper body and worn leather flip flops are on her feet. Her hair started open and loose around her face but has since been pulled into a sloppy pony tail. Oddly it makes her even more attractive. Observing her energy makes you feel as if you are observing a wild creature participating in a habit you have never had.

You're curled into the corner of the couch with her on the other end. Your billowy white skirt is tucked around you, an aquamarine sleeveless blouse along with a slightly lighter shade wrapped around your skull. Frankie sits in an adjacent overstuffed chair with Barry on the floor next to the table so he doesn't have to reach far for the array of snacks he's got on display.

You're caught up in counting how many grapes Barry has in him mouth that you fail to notice Jane shifting closer to you.

"Not really into baseball huh?"

You snap your head towards her and gosh darn if she isn't even prettier closer up.

"Oh, it's not that I'm not interested. I'm just not primordially interested."

The beautiful girl blinks at you.

"I just don't have much to contribute," you amend, your face flushing.

And now she's got this goofy grin on her face. "You're cute when you blush."

Beat. Pause.

You open your mouth. "Oh."

And now she's the one blushing. "Sorry," she tries. "That came out creepy."

You can't help but laugh which probably doesn't ease her one bit. You try your words. "No, no it was sweet Jane."

"So..." she says. "Tell me about yourself, Maura Isles. Seventeen, enjoyer of punch, knower of big words, owner of huge house, what else is there to know about you?"

She's talking, clearly asking you for information but all you can think is, she thinks I'm cute, she thinks I'm cute. _Cute, cute, cute._

You mentally slap yourself, _pull your shit together Maura_. But instead the only thing that comes out of your mouth is, "I can show you if you'd like?"

Jane's jaw drops a bit and silence fills the space around the two of you. You flip back to the question to try and figure out why she's looking at you all confused and embarrassed. Oh!

"Oh! I mean my room. I could show you my room!"

So. Not. Helping.

You think about clarifying, telling her how a dying girl spends a lot of time in her room and so it is designed and decorated with everything there is to know about you.

But Jane just smiles and agrees without further explanation. Just. Like. That.

"Maura is gonna show me her room." Jane is now standing. "You boys okay by yourself?"

She just gets a wave from her brother who is mid-sentence.

"No! No!" Barry is exclaiming. "You actually own an original transformer action figure?!"

Jane just looks back at you with an overdramatic eye roll. Boys, she explains.

And then, "Lead the way," she says. You are caught up in looking at her as she stands next to you, looking up at her, at that neck, at the clavicle that is just there. A horrified look crosses her face. "Oh god, sorry! Can I get your chair for you?" She goes beet red.

You laugh softly, realizing you've been on the couch since her arrival. You pull yourself slowly to your feet. "I can walk," you say.

And now she's just got wide eyes as if you are some kind of miracle.

"My muscles have a tendency of getting weak " you explain. "Hence the chair. I haven't loss all function yet."

Jane is still standing there.

"Ewing's sarcoma or primitive neuroectodermal tumor," you explain. "Malignant."

She is either not understanding or she is not sure what to say or do next. You don't blame her.

Information makes you feel better so that's what you go with.

"Um, _here_." You place your hands on your torso. "And _here_." Your hands tap the front of your pelvis. "Metastasized and spread _here_." You touch your spine, wincing slightly at the extended motion. "Should I show you my room still?"

You hate that your voice is somewhat tiny. Vulnerable. You've gotten over people writing off your friendship out of fear. You aren't trying to scare anyone. You are just telling the truth. Suddenly though your chest is squeezing, your heart over pumping. If this girl freaks out on you like so many others, you will be crushed. Your head is cloudy trying to figure out why, why you care so much over a practical stranger.

But before you can, Jane steps forward and offers her arm for support.

"I would be honored to know all there is to know about you, Maura Isles. All these secrets that lie hidden inside your room. i must see them." Her eyes are bright as if you, everything about you, delights her.

You laugh, suddenly. The sound bursting out of your throat. You take her arm, blink back the tears that leapt into your eyes the moment she first spoke. Then, you lead the way.

* * *

AN: Thank you for all the lovely reviews. Apologies for this taking some time. Was struggling somewhat with finding the right balance between the so very literal Maura of cannon and this AU version. Glad people are enjoying the Maura/Frost friendship. It's fun to write! Hoping the dynamic of Maura and her family is coming off how I intend. My intention is not to paint them in a negative light but instead, a limited light. I always saw the cannon Constance Isles and her transformation into the perfect mother to Maura as very unrealistic. A few sentences from a stranger (Jane) and bam! she is a completely different woman. She's limited and people that are limited have no concept of how to respond to situation's (Maura's illness) that has no room for limitations. Anyways, let me know what you thought!

xx Clem


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